Heart of Gold (22 page)

'Wait,' Aubrey said. Despite his tiredness, he called his
muffling spell to mind. He held up a hand and began to
roll out the elements, but was dismayed when he
stumbled over a simple nexus-defining term.

'Old man?' George said.

'Sorry,' Aubrey said. 'Seems I'm rather more tired than
I thought.' He took a deep breath. 'I'm sure we won't be
heard here anyway.'

Caroline frowned. 'Are you all right?'

'Of course. It's been a long day, that's all.'

Inspector Paul shrugged. 'Tell me about this mythical
airfield.'

'One of your experimental airships has been lost.'

'Why should I believe you?'

'I saved Captain Saltin's life in Albion. He will vouch
for me.'

Inspector Paul sucked air in through his teeth. 'Saltin?
Is he back on duty already?'

Aubrey liked his opponents to be on the back foot, so
he followed this with another short-pitched delivery.
'And how does a police inspector know about personnel
in the Dirigible Corps?'

Inspector Paul's face hardened. 'I have a cousin who
works at the St Martin airfield.' He clamped his lips
together. 'It is no matter. You say that there has been
destruction?'

'Much destruction. I'm sure the police will be asked to
investigate. And be on the lookout for a bear.'

'A bear? There are no bears in Gallia.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'Your men were just run down by
an ox from the dawn of time and you think a bear is
impossible?'

The Inspector made a note in his journal. 'I will investigate
this.'

Aubrey knew the Inspector would be in a hurry to get
back to headquarters to make the most of his information.'
Now that I've told you something, I hope you will
be able to help me in return.'

'What is it?'

Aubrey pointed at the Academy of Sciences. 'What
have you found out about this?'

The Inspector scowled. 'You see the green jackets?
They are from our Bureau of Exceptional Investigations.'
Two men wearing the anonymous dark-green uniforms
were standing near one of the pillars at the front of
the building. They were rubbing their hands against the
pediment.

Aubrey could see the ambivalence that Inspector Paul
felt for his magician colleagues. 'What have they told you?'

'Very little. But they say that the building was affected
by a very powerful magical artefact.' Inspector Paul
looked keenly at Aubrey. 'They would give me no details,
but I think we know what they were talking about.'

'They say it was here?'

'They were not sure. It may simply be that, having
been dislocated from its resting place, it is affecting the
city in erratic ways. I have reports of deranged men,
running around breaking street lights. Another was
arrested trying to cut down the bells in the church of
St Catherine.'

Aubrey had a final thought. 'Have you any news about
the Soul Stealer?'

Inspector Paul rolled his eyes. 'This photographer is
not as important as other matters. He can wait.'

I hope you're right
, Aubrey thought, but he had a
nagging suspicion otherwise. He held out his hand.
'Thank you, Inspector. Good luck.'

They shook. 'I think we should stay in touch, no?'

'Yes.'

T
HEY DECIDED TO LEAVE THE LORRY WHERE IT WAS
. T
HE
police would be bound to notice it sooner or later and
return it to the airfield. As George, Caroline and Aubrey
walked through the quiet streets, he wondered about
Saltin and hoped the airman had not been hurt again.
He liked Saltin, with his passion for the airships.

At one point, they were followed by a pack of mongrel
dogs that appeared from nowhere. Growling, they
advanced until driven off by a few stones, well thrown
by George.

They reached the Isle of the Crown and Caroline's
apartment building. She stood at the door and studied
them, seriously. 'I suppose I'm committed, now.'

'I beg your pardon?' Aubrey said.

'I may as well see this thing through, now that my
studies have been taken from me.'

Aubrey started guiltily, but managed to hide it with a
yawn. 'Sorry. Of course, we'd be glad to have you along,
wouldn't we, George?'

George played a straight bat to this. 'Of course.'

Caroline nodded. 'You're not the only one who's
tantalised by a mystery, Aubrey. Besides, I'm finding this
sort of thing has some appeal. I may have to talk seriously
to the Special Services.'

'What about your science studies?'

'I'm not saying I've made up my mind yet. About
anything.'

With that, she was through the door and closed it
behind her.

George shook his head. 'You know, old man, if I were
you –'

'Don't finish that sentence, George. Please.'

'My advice on romance has been sought by thousands,
you know.'

'Thousands?'

'Metaphorically speaking.'

'I see. That's where "thousands" is a metaphor for
"none", is it?'

'What a hurtful thing to say,' George responded,
grinning. 'As a result, I'll leave you to your own devices.'

'An entirely satisfactory state of affairs.'

T
HE TWO HOURS
A
UBREY HAD IN BED WERE NOT
restful at all. Sleep fled from him, and instead, he
was plucked and pummelled by worry.

His fatigue and weakness were steadily growing, but
he'd had enough experience to feel that he could force
himself on despite them. The other signs were more
disquieting. His appetite was still a stranger to him, and he
was sure he'd lost weight. His senses of taste and smell had
diminished. He had lost more hair. The rough and flaking
skin had spread up his arms, across his chest and shoulders.

Most worrying of all was the impaired healing. In the
early morning light, he examined the slash on the base of
his thumb. Having removed the tightly bound handkerchief,
he noted, gloomily, that although the bleeding had
slowed, it hadn't stopped.

That's not what I need at all
, he thought. He found a
clean handkerchief and rebound the wound.

He crossed the room on unsteady legs and stood at the
washstand. He shuddered at the pale, drawn face he saw
in the mirror. His eyes were dull, and was that a patch of
flaking skin on his neck?

He dashed water on his face. He dressed, wearing a
starched high-collared shirt despite the discomfort. He
tucked Bernard's journal into his jacket pocket in the
hope that he'd find some time to decipher the writings.

For a moment, Aubrey rested his head on the brass bed
post. Deep down, he'd always been confident he'd find
a remedy for his condition. It was just another puzzle
to solve, after all. Some hard work, some flashes of
insight, and he'd triumph, snatching victory when all
seemed lost.

Now, however, time was proving to be a more difficult
opponent than he'd thought. It was racing away, leaving
him more debilitated as the hours ticked by.

With a chill that began in his heart and worked its way
outwards, Aubrey realised that perhaps things weren't
going to be all right this time. He could do nothing other
than press on with the plans he'd formulated during the
sleepless hours, but the consequences of failure were
looming as more than something to be put in a box and
marked 'possible outcome'.

If he couldn't stop his deterioration, he would die the
true death.

Sobered, and more than a little shaken, he went downstairs,
thinking hard.

Madame Calvert was finishing her breakfast when he
arrived downstairs. She handed him a letter. 'It came last
night. From the embassy. And a Miss Hepworth rang.
She said she couldn't go with you today as her mother
needed her for more modelling. She apologised and
asked if she could join you tomorrow morning. A polite
young lady.'

Aubrey nodded. In a way, he was glad. His plans for the
day included something he'd rather Caroline not see.

Aubrey read the letter and, dimly, noted he couldn't
smell the cup of coffee Madame Calvert had placed in
front of him.

The letter was from his mother and it gently but
firmly prompted him for some progress in his seeking of
Dr Romellier. He read it guiltily, but then considered the
status of his commitments.

He decided that George had made some dent in the
genealogy quest for Bertie, and while he didn't have
his grandmother's letters in his possession, he had a
promising avenue of investigation to follow, with
Monsieur Caron having promised to bring the letters to
his shop. That made two tasks where he could firmly say
some headway had been made.

George walked through the door, yawning. 'Morning,
old man. Busy day ahead?'

'Not if we had an army of servants at our disposal.
But seeing as there's only us, it promises to be full and
interesting.'

'Splendid. Sounds as if I should make sure I'm well fed
before setting out.'

'Of course.' Aubrey sighed and laced his hands on his
chest. 'I'm going to do something about my condition.'

'Excellent. Not before time, I'd say.' George gestured at
the empty plate in front of Aubrey. 'You're not eating.'

'No. I can't.'

'Ah. That bad, is it?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Then we must get you fixed up, straightaway.'

Aubrey watched his friend stow away an astonishing
amount of food. He admired the gusto with which
George attacked the pastries, rolls, cheese and fruit. He
was full of life, practically vibrating with it, and Aubrey
felt envious.

When they finally left the apartment building, Aubrey
was taken aback to find Gabriel propped against a lamp
post at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for them. A poster
promising unspecified disaster had been pasted on a letter
box and Gabriel was eyeing it moodily. He was accompanied
by four substantial colleagues, none of whom looked
as if he would be much use in a battle of wits. Freestyle
brawling, however, would be a different matter.

'Fitzwilliam,' Gabriel said in Gallian. 'You say that
you're interested in supporting our movement, do you?'
He spoke as if their conversation of the previous evening
hadn't been interrupted by a bear attack and an exploding
dirigible.

Aubrey had a vision of his plans for the day torn into
confetti and thrown into the air. 'Albion has an interest
in a stable continent,' he replied, carefully.

'Excellent.' Gabriel slapped his thigh as if Aubrey had
just pledged his fortune to the cause. 'To test your commitment,
however, we have a task for you. To prove yourself.'

Aubrey narrowed his eyes. What sort of proof of
loyalty would Gabriel want? Something illegal would be
useful, putting a new recruit apart from normal society,
binding them closely to the organisation as the only place
that would have them.

'If you doubt our word . . .' Aubrey said.

'Actions speak louder than words. Come.'

George caught Aubrey's eye. 'Old man?'

'We're going with them.'

'D'you think that's wise? Don't you have something
urgent to do?'

With Gabriel looking suspiciously at him, Aubrey
shook his head. 'This is more important. I'm sure that
other matter can wait.'

George didn't look convinced. 'I hope you know what
you're doing.'

Aubrey shrugged.
So do I
, he thought.

A
UBREY AND
G
EORGE WERE HERDED ALONG ALLEYS AND
lanes and through the crowded yards of carters,
merchants and providores. Gabriel went confidently and
was often greeted by name. Aubrey noted this as an indication
of how far the Marchmaine independence
movement had penetrated Gallian society, at least at the
level of those who fetched, carried and carted.

They came across another pack of dogs, worrying at
the remains of what appeared to be a horse. The dogs
growled but didn't give chase.

They entered a short street. On the corner was a seedy
bar, the Loyal Badger. Half a dozen shops were lined up
along the ground floor of the four-storey buildings.
Gabriel led the way to the last door on the left, just
before the street ran into another at right angles.

Gabriel put a hand on the door. He grinned at Aubrey,
showing a bad tooth. 'Your task awaits you.'

Gabriel's silent friends were behind Aubrey and
George. Aubrey sized up the moment. He was sure he
and George could escape, but it would ruin their chances
with the Sons of Victor. No, they were committed to
going through with whatever ordeal Gabriel had planned
for them.

His heart pounded as he crossed the threshold and
stared down a short flight of stairs into the room below.
The only light came from the door behind him and
through cracks in the boards covering the windows, so
the room was a pit of shadows. He took a deep breath
and descended into the unknown.

Carefully, arms extended, Aubrey kicked aside loose
paper that was strewn on the floor. The place was damp
and he was sure it would smell of mildew – if he could
smell. In the middle of the room, he strained to make out
a large shape, as tall as George, unmoving and ominous.
He tensed at movement, but it was only Gabriel lighting
a match, then an oil lamp, and Aubrey sighed with relief
when the darkness rolled back.

'A printing press,' George said without enthusiasm.

'This is your challenge,' Gabriel said, rubbing his hands
together.

Aubrey had skinned many knuckles on printing presses
during his father's helter-skelter election campaign. He
ran his hand along the guide rail. It came away dusty.

Aubrey sighed. 'It's a Woolley Imperial. Made in
Albion.'

'You are familiar with this machine?' Gabriel said.
'Good. We need handbills. Many handbills. Lutetia must
be carpeted with our handbills.'

Aubrey took off his hat and jacket. He looked for a
place to hang them but gave up and dropped them in a
corner. Something stirred and ran away under the paper,
squeaking. Aubrey reminded himself to check his clothes
when he picked them up again.

'This is our task?' George asked. 'To make handbills?
That's all?'

'Hah!' Gabriel smiled nastily. 'You think that working
the Beast is easy? You're more stupid than you look.'

Aubrey watched George. His friend nodded, slowly,
and Aubrey knew he was making special note of
Gabriel's face. For later.

Two hours later, Aubrey understood how the printing
press had earned its nickname. His shirt was soaked with
sweat and he had ink stains up to his elbows. George had
a nasty gash on the back of his hand where a retaining
bar had, without warning, snapped back into place while
he was adjusting a platen head. They had not managed to
print a single handbill.

Aubrey was struggling. His thumb was still bleeding,
despite his twice rebinding the wound with fresh handkerchiefs.
His knees, elbows and shoulder joints were
spots of hot pain, as if someone had filled them with
powdered glass.

Gabriel left after half an hour's gloating, taking one of
his comrades with him and leaving the other to supervise.
This consisted of sitting on a bale of paper, picking
teeth, grunting and refusing any requests for help.

The door opened. Aubrey straightened from tightening
a roller nut, ready to explain their meagre output.

'Fitzwilliam! My friend! What are you doing here?'

'Hello, Saltin.' Aubrey was glad of the distraction. He
wiped his face with a weary hand. 'I was wondering the
same thing.'

The airman was reassuringly unharmed. 'I am here to
help my friends in their struggle for a free Marchmaine.'

'Isn't that a little . . . well . . . dangerous? For someone
in your position?'

'Nonsense. When does a citizen of Gallia fear to speak
his mind? The revolution was fought for such freedoms!'

George scratched his chin. 'But you don't want to be
part of Gallia any more.'

Saltin was puzzled for a moment, then brightened. 'But
the enlightened state of Marchmaine will naturally share
the same values as revolutionary Gallia. It is the only truly
modern way.'

Aubrey looked at his supervisor, who hadn't moved.
'I think it's time for a break, wouldn't you say?' He
repeated it in Gallian and earned a grunt in reply. This
time, he chose to interpret it as a positive grunt rather than
a negative one. He sat on one of the boxes of useless spare
parts that George had hauled from one of the back rooms.
George sprawled on another, but Saltin remained standing.

'What about last night?' Aubrey said to Saltin.

The airman's face fell. 'The AT 204. It was almost
totally destroyed. Months of work, gone.'

'AT 204? I thought the 200 was your most advanced
airship.'

Saltin grinned. 'The 200 is a wonderful craft, but the
204 is going to be even better.' His face fell. '
Was
going
to be even better.'

'Who do you suspect?'

Saltin spread his hands. 'I have no shortage of suspects,
but no evidence to speak of.'

'It wasn't a magical attack. I can assure you of that.'

'Ah. That is good to know. When I left the airfield,
the Bureau had been there for some hours. They said the
same thing, but they were puzzled by what they called
magical traces on the other side of the hangar. When I
told them about the bear, they were most excited.'

They would be.
'What about your airship development
program?'

'It has been damaged, severely. We have a dozen craft
that are airworthy, with another three under repair. These
are all serviceable, but they lack the refinements we were
working on for the AT 204.'

Aubrey mentally translated the word 'refinement' to
mean 'armament'. He had no doubt that the new generation
of Gallian airship was being planned with the
impending war in mind. Which, of course, made the
Holmlanders the obvious suspects.

'I'd love to help you,' Aubrey said, 'but . . .' He gestured
at the printing press. It looked smug and Aubrey glared
at it.